


This I Know, Baby

by whisperedwords



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: College AU, Happy Ending, M/M, Marching Band AU, Mild Angst, Multi, Sam POV, Sam has a nervous crush on Steve, Threesome - F/M/M, gratuitous name dropping throughout, mentions of trauma, who couldn't be more oblivious if he tried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:41:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2217858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedwords/pseuds/whisperedwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Wilson plays trumpet in the Syracuse Marching Band. He's got a thing for that damn quarterback with the blond hair and impossible shoulder-to-waist ratio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This I Know, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> for the Freebird Big Bang! infinite thanks to Sam (@clintbanner on twitter) for the beta readings. Also, thank you to all my twitter followers for cheering me on through this whole process! It's been quite a ride. Anyway, the rest of the mistakes you find in here are all mine. Enjoy! (also, send feedback to me via [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/wallaceboden) or [tumblr](http://grantgustin.tk)!)

It all starts on the first day of his first semester Economics class. Sam is sitting in the middle of the mildly-full lecture hall, waiting for the class to start and daydreaming about getting the hell _out_ and probably going out with Nat, Bucky, and Clint. Would he end up third-wheeling it while they get all up on each other? It’s a discouraging thought, and he brushes it aside, hoping that there won’t be alcohol involved. His gaze focuses back onto the front of the room, where the professor—Dr. Stark, one of the richest men in the nation—is striding into the room and taking his place at the podium. _Here we go_ , Sam thinks, opening his notebook and then leaning down to grab a pen from his bag. When he sits back up, he takes a steady, focusing breath, and then starts to listen…only to stop a few moments later, when the door swings open and practically makes a crashing noise as it hits the wall. Dr. Stark doesn’t seem bothered—though that might be the fact that the sunglasses he’s currently sporting do a good job of hiding any indication of irritation. Sam looks to the source of the noise, only to wish he hadn’t. Because Steve Rogers, _the_ Steve Rogers, has just stumbled in, looking particularly red in the face as he apologizes profusely to everyone.

“Alright,” Dr. Stark says dismissively, shooing him to the back of the room, “Nice entrance. Next time it happens, I’m taking 15 points off of your next assignment. Or, you know what? 20. That’s more fun.” He looks back down at his lecture notes, obviously done with the discussion. Flustered into silent acceptance, Steve nods once before walking up the aisle, looking for a seat. Sam’s heart stops. He turns his head in an attempt to be casual, praying that the seat beside him is vacant. To his frustration, the person sharing the lab table with him is currently _sleeping_ on her textbooks. He’s got half a mind to push her out of the chair and offer it to the walking, talking beam of sunshine currently searching for a place to settle, but then remembers the “talk” he had with Nat about Steve and the whole “being a good person” thing, and figures that _that_ wouldn’t really win him any points. So he sits quietly, tapping his fingers as he keeps an eye on Steve. Steve, who’s walking this way. The thought crosses his mind once more, but before Sam can shoo it away, Steve walks right in front of his desk, flashes him a brief smile, and then—sits in front of him. _Oh god_. Sam desperately tries to avoid looking at Steve by looking to Dr. Stark, who’s now sketching something completely illegible on the SmartBoard, but only sees the back of his crush’s head. _Fuck_. In defeat, he slumps over in his chair and rests his head in his arms, listening to the lecture but also finding ways to describe the glint of Steve’s hair in the shitty lecture hall lighting. And, of course, he falls asleep.

Well, at least he thinks he fell asleep. All he knows is that when he lifts his head, Stark is closing up his laptop in front, and the girl next to him has packed her things away and is now getting up from the table. ‘ _Great job, Wilson_ ,’ he chides himself, ‘ _falling asleep in class. Best way to start the semester_.’ He gets up from his seat and grabs his binder while checking his phone for any missed texts. Probably a couple from Clint, who had gone out drinking the night before and was desperate for some Advil, Sam thinks with a roll of his eyes. Always having to be the responsible one—

Of course, the responsible one probably wouldn’t have started texting and walking while leaving the lecture hall, because as he’s typing, he practically slams against something rock solid. With a thud, Sam hits the floor, falling on his ass and dropping the binder he was attempting to tuck under his arm. He looks up, ready for one cold moment to say something, when he realizes that the rock solid force he had run into was none other than Steve Rogers, who had been talking to Bruce Banner, the guy he ended up sitting next to. The blood rushes from Sam’s face when he realizes this. At that same moment, Steve turns around, looking horrified at what had happened. A thousand thoughts start running through Sam’s head— _what if he’s pissed, what if I interrupted something important, what if he_ ignores _me completely_?

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Steve apologizes, crouching to the floor and helping Sam pick up the scattered Calculus notes that litter the floor. “I should’ve been walking faster, this was completely my fault. I’m really sorry about this,” He continues, completely oblivious to the way Sam is looking at him. With a grunt, he stands up holding the papers he had grabbed and extends his other hand to Sam for assistance. “Here.” Almost in a trance, he takes Steve’s hand and hauls himself up, one arm clinging to the papers he had collected and the other tingling because _Steve Rogers is holding his hand_.

It ends as briefly as it had begun. Steve lets go and Sam takes the papers, casually tucking them back into his binder and thanking _God_ that no one could see the blush that had so rapidly spread across his face. He takes a deep breath.

“Didn’t know you were a lineman, too.” He blurts, trying to make some sort of conversation with the almost-departed Steve. The other man turns, an eyebrow raised.

“Lineman?”

“I mean—”

“You know me?”

“Of course, man.” Sam rambles. “You’re Steve Rogers, the Orangemen quarterback. I’m a football guy myself.” Wait. “I mean—I like football, not—”

“I get what you’re saying.” Steve says, walking back over with a grin that makes Sam’s gut knot up. “I didn’t realize I was so popular, that’s all.” Bruce rolls his eyes goodnaturedly at Steve’s modesty and slips out of the room.

“Well, don’t get your hopes up _too_ high; I only know you ‘cause I’m at all the games.” Sam teases. Steve’s eyebrow arches again, a playful smile flitting across his face. “Marching band, you know.”

“You’re in marching band?” Steve asks, and suddenly Sam feels self-conscious.

“Yeah.” He responds after a few moments. Expecting a disgusted or indifferent response, he directs his gaze downward. He should’ve known. Football players are never interested in much beyond the sport itself, and Sam should’ve known. But…but when he looks back up, Steve doesn’t look disinterested. In fact, the smile on his face gets bigger.

“That’s awesome.” He says, knocking his shoulder into Sam’s like they’re friends already. The fear pounding in Sam’s head dissipates quickly. “Thanks for showing up to all the games, man. Some of the ones so far this season have been pretty bad. You guys were the only good part of those—everybody forgot about the walloping we took when they saw the formations you guys were making.” And it sounds so genuine, so meaningful, that Sam can’t fight the grin off his face.

“I shouldn’t take _all_ the credit…but aw, what the hell.” He chuckles, shifting the books in his arms to distract himself from the intense feelings that had suddenly overcome him. Steve laughs, too, and Sam realizes right then and there that he’s in too deep. The way his face had just lit up, the bright sound that was his voice…Sam shakes his head to rid the thoughts from his mind. Then there’s silence, as they walk side-by-side from the classroom down one of the hallways leading to the lecture house exit, falling into step with one another. Sam wants so badly to say something—anything, really, to keep the conversation going—but by the time he thinks of an appropriate topic that won’t put him in danger of any more embarrassing rambling, Steve is turning towards the Carrier Dome.

“I gotta go. Practice and whatnot. You know.” Steve says over his shoulder, leaving Sam standing in his wake. He turns around for a moment, looking straight at him. “I’ll see you around, Sam.” And then he’s gone, jogging off to catch up to the rest of the hulking players wandering towards the stadium. Sam’s goodbye dies in his throat. _How does he know my name_?

xx

Sam is late to rehearsal that day. Only five minutes, really—but by then, Natasha has already settled herself into her chair and can’t be bothered to talk to him until after the two hours of practice are over. Clint, on the other hand—Clint, who’s completely useless in the percussion section after he broke his arm on the football field the other day—has nothing better to do than talk to Sam. Sam plops into his seat with a sigh and starts unpacking his trumpet when he feels someone leaning on the back of his chair.

“Sammy, boy, a little bird told me that you were gettin’ chatty with a certain hunky football star. That true?” Clint teases. Sam presses his mouthpiece to his lips and blows, circulating air through his instrument and purposely avoiding his friend’s words until he can think of something witty in response.

“I’m gonna smash your bird-brained ass into that base drum right there if you don’t stop,” He warns, only half teasing. The percussionist chuckles.

“That bad, huh? What happened?”

Sam hesitates. “I ran into him at the end of Econ today.” He takes a breath. “Like. I literally walked right into his back.” Clint snorts behind him. “Fuck off, man!”

“Lemme guess, he caught you in his arms and gazed into your eyes passionately and said ‘Sam, your eyes are as brown as—”

“Mister _Barton_.” The Assistant Director snaps from the front of the room. “Care to join our rehearsal? Or are you planning on gossiping with Mister Wilson for the _entire_ time block?” Sam ‘oooh’s softly under his breath. Clint holds up a hand in innocence, pointing to his other arm sitting in its sling.

“Can’t do anything like this.” He says simply, and the AD rolls her eyes before directing her attention to the rest of the band. She lifts her arms to start the first scale of many, and Sam takes a deep breath before starting to play up the C scale at a fast pace. He’s used to this—Dr. Hill has always been somewhat of a pusher when it comes to warm-ups, and they only do this once a week to make sure everyone’s on point. It’s crucial for them to get it right so she doesn’t blow up in their faces about practice time and taking music seriously—so it’s probably why Clint chooses then to lean back down in Sam’s ear.

“You know I’m buddy-buddy with Rogers, right? I could set you up.” He whispers, and the trumpet player almost chokes on his mouthpiece. He quickly recovers, trying his best to act like he didn’t just fuck up the one group warm-up they’d do for the next six days. Without missing another beat, he snaps his shoulder back, which sends Clint stumbling away from the chair and into a noisy percussion instrument that stops the entire rehearsal. Dr. Hill’s eyes snap up to both of them.

“Wilson. Barton. _Out_.” She says quietly, pointing to the door and practically trembling in anger. Knowing better than to argue, the two men immediately scuttle from the room, Sam trying vainly to muffle Clint’s snickers until they get out of the building.

“Shit, dude, you’re gonna get me in so much _trouble_.” Sam says, but he’s only a little worried. Clint grabs him by the shoulders with his free arm and pulls him close.

“Sam, my friend, Dr. Hill _loves_ you. I don’t think you should worry about her sending you to the guillotine. As for me…” He makes a noise as he drags a finger across his throat. “I am nothing but trouble for her.”

“Seeing as you manage to injure yourself every _year_ right before a big concert and you’re one of the few competent drummers we’ve got, yeah.” Sam reminds him, which gets him a passively-waved hand.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Listen—whaddaya say we swing by ol’ Carrier and see if any _especially_ good looking boys are running around.”

“Would your boyfriend be the subject of that search? If you ditch me to go mess around with Bucky I swear to _god_ , Clint, I’ll tell Nat—”

“Tattletales are no fun, Sammy!” With a harmless shove, Clint bounds away from Sam and towards the football stadium. With a lot of regret, Sam follows him.

They jog up to the entrance and slip past the ticket booth, where the man in charge of security is sleeping in the chair. Clint shrugs. “If they ask why we’re here, we’re part of the football team. Well. I am. You’ll get busted.”

“This was your idea!” Sam splutters in protest, and gets a whack on the shoulder in return.

“I’m _kidding_. Loosen up a little, Wilson. Is your little crush on the quarterback getting your underwear in a knot?”

“Oh my god. How do _you_ have a boyfriend and a girlfriend while I’m stuck being single? I don’t get it, man.” He plops down on the metal bleachers, his friend following suit. “Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t think I want to know.”

“You sure about that? I had the _best_ time last night with Nat and Buck, like, we did stuff I nev—”

“I AM GOING TO STRAIGHT UP MURDER YOU, BARTON, SHUT UP.” Sam clamps his hands over his ears to try and block out Clint’s laughter, which still manages to make its way through. _Christ_. “Look over there, it’s your boyfriend.”

“Buck!” Clint shouts, waving his arm enthusiastically. Bucky looks up from the field and waves back, a ridiculous grin lighting up his face. He shouts something to one of the assistant coaches and then jogs up the bleacher steps two at a time. In no time, he’s reached where they’re sitting, and Sam pointedly looks away as he sweeps Clint into a disgustingly adorable kiss. “How’s practice?” He mumbles, and Sam thinks they’re done. Bucky has moved away from his boyfriend and now is leaning against the fence of the stands. He holds out a fist for Sam to bump in greeting and then focuses back on Barton.

“Fine. We’re nervous about playing Penn State on Saturday, but other than that—we’re good. The band’s gonna be there to back us up, right boys?”

“Of course, Barnes. What’re we gonna do, play for the basketball team instead?” Sam replies, and Bucky rolls his eyes playfully. “Ya boy over here got us kicked out of class, though, so I don’t know how good we’ll be.”

“SPEAKING OF,” Clint interrupts, grabbing his boyfriend’s hand. “Sam’s got some news about the Cap down there. Right, Sammy?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Sam hisses, but by then Bucky has picked up exactly what Clint had hinted at.

“No way. You talked to Stevie? What’d he say? What’d _you_ say?”

“When did you both become so involved with my romantic life.” Sam grumps, crossing his arms, but Barton fills in, to his distaste.

“It was love at first _sight_ , babe, you wouldn’t believe it. Sam ran into Steve! Like, he slammed into his back. It was so cute. Then he said some cute nerdy Sam things, probably, and Steve batted his baby blues at him and. Well. I guess we should start planning their wedding.” Bucky _aww_ s. Sam is mortified beyond belief, and drops his head into his arms.

“Clint, you piece of shit,” He mumbles. Bucky claps a hand on his shoulder, though, and he looks up.

“Nice, dude. You can tell me when you’re ready. When a certain _someone_ isn’t being a total dick.”

“Hey!” Clint says, holding up his hands in innocence. “Just keeping it interesting. Besides, you think it’s cute.”

Bucky sighs in resigned agreement. “Yeah, yeah, _sure_ ,” Sam says in regard to both comments. He opens his mouth to say something else when the clang of feet on metal fills his ears.

“Buck! You ready to run some drills with the offensive line?” Steve asks, walking up to where they’re standing around. Sam feels his heart stop beating for a moment. Bucky looks at him, raises an eyebrow, and then turns to his quarterback.

“Hell yeah I am.” He replies. Steve chuckles, and then looks over to where Clint and Sam are sitting. He smiles at them.

“Barton, you gonna be ready for Saturday’s game against Penn State?” He asks, and Clint beams at him for a moment.

“Probably………….not. Sorry, dude. This break was worse than the last one. I’ll cheer you guys on from the sidelines, though, don’t worry!”

“Just heal up, ok? We need you on the field. As good as Odinson can adapt, you’re still the best receiver we’ve got.” He gives Clint a light pat on the shoulder, and then his eyes flit over to Sam. “Sam?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. Half-expecting an answer from Barton, too, Sam turns his head, but is met with an expecting stare. _What do I say?_

“That’s me,” He replies half a beat late, but doesn’t get any further because a whistle blows from down on the turf, drawing the attention of the football players. Sam thanks whatever angel is watching over him, because he’s pretty sure that what was going to come out next was word vomit, and Clint would _never_ let him live that down.

“Steve, let’s head back to the field. I’m sure Coach is gonna have some tough shit for us once we’re down there. Later, boys.” Bucky says, wrapping an arm around Steve’s shoulders and tugging him close as they walk away. Steve waves at them before leaning away from Bucky and slipping out of his iron grip. Clint sighs. Sam shakes his head and then checks his watch.

“I think we should head back to rehearsal and apologize to Dr. Hill or something.” He says after a moment. “I kinda feel bad that we pissed her off so much. Well, you. _You_ pissed her off. I was caught in the crossfire—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. C’mon. Let’s go satisfy that overbearing sense of morality you’ve got.” Clint chuckles, getting up from his reclined position on the bleachers. They leave the stadium together, fully prepared to sneak back into the rehearsal room, when there’s a patter of footsteps behind them, and Sam turns around in time to see Natasha walking towards them, her arms crossed.

“Nat?” He says cautiously. “What’s—”

“You got kicked out of class, you morons. What the _hell_ were you thinking? There’s a concert in like, three weeks! Are you stupid or something?” She turns her attention to Clint, but doesn’t say anything else. Sam is grateful he’s not dating her, because the look she’s giving him could probably cut through solid metal. “Actually, I already know the answer to that one.”

“Sam—class—boy—“ Clint stutters, holding his hand up in defense once again. Natasha continues to advance on him, her mouth turning down into more and more of a frown until—

“I talked to Steve.” Sam blurts, trying to prevent his best friend from murdering her boyfriend. That stops her in her tracks. She turns to him slowly, the frown quickly fading into a smirk.

“Well how about that,” She hums. “Is that what this giant man-baby here got you in trouble for?” Clint looks at her sheepishly and then looks away.

“It was his fault. He was harassing me about it, and—”

“What happened?” Nat interrupts, sidling up to Sam’s side and holding his arm. She bats her eyelashes for good measure, which makes him snort before talking.

“He’s apparently in my Econ class this semester, and I walked into him by accident at the end of class. He helped me pick up the papers that fell, and then we talked a little as we left. It’s no big deal.” Of course it is. Steve Rogers knew his _name_ , which, wait—“He knew my name. How did he know my name? I’ve never spoken two words to him in my life. Well, before today. Tell me you didn’t say anything.” He looks down to where she’s currently leaning against him. She avoids his gaze, a little smile playing across her face. “Nat. You didn’t.”

“It’s not like I’m advertising your singleness! You just happen to be a part of our poly-shenanigans a lot. Besides, there are some band stories that need to be told, you know? Like, that one party where Bruce smashed a snare drum—”

“You talked about _band_ with him?!” Sam repeats in horror. “Shit. Nat, he didn’t tell me he already knew I was in band! I probably looked like a total asshole.”

“An asshole he might like to get into one day?” Clint interjects. Sam and Natasha look at him and he shuts his mouth.

“That’s good, though. If he lets you talk about something he already knows about, he probably likes you.” She lets go of his arm and looks up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Want me to find out? I’m sure he’d tell me—”

“Nah. Don’t wanna get my hopes up, ya know?”

“I have two boyfriends who play on the football team, and I have a hard time getting both of them to pay attention to me individually, let alone at once. I _know_ what you mean.” She deadpans, and Sam laughs.

“Serious question, now: is Hill pissed off at me? Like, was she doing the thing where she aggressively conducts the entire trumpet section?” He asks, and Natasha rolls her eyes.

“She’s fine. She loves you, Sam. Are we forgetting this? You’re first chair trumpet. You could kill a man and she’d be fine with it. And anyway, all we did was run through your _favorite_ piece.” Needless to say, it was not Sam’s favorite piece—the trumpet solo was given to some other kid—Jackson—who got lucky _once_ in the audition and proceeded to mess it up every single time. Sam can play it with his eyes closed. As giving of a person as he thinks he is, he knows without a doubt that coming second is the one thing that makes him selfish. “Hey, are you doing anything Saturday night? I heard there’s a party on the other side of campus and we haven’t gone out as a family in a while.”

“You mean gone out as a threesome-plus-one? Yeah, it’s been a while.”

“Hey, it’s not like we haven’t asked you to join us.” She pokes him in the chest. “And a party’ll be good for you. You can loosen up and then spill all of your gushy feelings to one of us while we drink copious amounts of shitty frat beer. It’ll be fun!” Sam rolls his eyes, but nods anyway. Natasha grins at him and gives him a kiss on the cheek before dragging Clint by his unbroken arm. He gives Sam a pleading look, but Sam only laughs in response.

“You got yourself into this mess, smartass. Have fun getting your balls ripped off!” He waves condescendingly. Clint flips him the bird.

“Oh, he will!” Nat calls over her shoulder.

xx

The next time he’s in Economics—Wednesday, to be exact, since he’s got the class three days a week—he makes himself a promise. He’s going to pay attention. He is _not_ going to stare at the back of Steve’s head for two hours. He’s going to take notes, and pay attention to Professor Stark (no matter how much the man irks him) and _not_ fall asleep. He walks into class determined, ready to make up for Monday’s mistake, when he sees Steve talking quietly with Stark. He slips past, hoping to avoid any attention, when—

“Hey.” Professor Stark says, grabbing Sam’s shoulder and stopping him from moving any further. Oh god, here it comes, Stark probably saw him sleeping. Shit. Sam opens his mouth to defend himself—or apologize, he honestly can’t tell which one is going to come out first—but Stark cuts off his words. “Damn. Wrong kid. Which one is the one who—you know who I’m talking about, the one with the crazy eyes—” He’s rambling, but instead of listening, Sam has glanced over at Steve, who’s giving him a little smile. He rolls his eyes quickly, so Stark doesn’t see him, and then quickly ducks away from the front of the room and back to where he’s going to completely _not_ think about how gorgeous Steve Rogers was when he smiled. He plops into the chair. The girl next to him is asleep, as before. Sam muffles a snort, and then turns his attention to the front, where Professor Stark has begun his lecture at the podium. Sam listens. He nods, he takes down the key parts of the lesson, he—

“Sam.” Someone whispers, and Sam’s head snaps up, looking for the source of the voice. He turns his head. The girl is still sleeping. No one at the table across from him was whispering anything. Focusing his attention back on the notes up front, he picks up his pencil and starts to jot down one of the equations filling up the projector screen.

“ _Sam_.” There it is again. This time, though, as he looks up, he sees Steve turned around slightly in his chair. Sam raises an eyebrow. “Got a spare pencil?” Sam nods, and Steve holds out a tentative hand from under his chair. Sam hands one over, his fingers accidentally brushing against Steve’s palm. He jerks his hand back, but the blonde doesn’t seem to notice it. He grins at Sam, bright and beautiful, and Sam smiles back briefly. Steve mouths _Thank You_ and Sam nods again.

The rest of the class is a blur. Between forcing himself to pay attention to the professor and thinking about Steve ( _damn that boy and his perfect lips_ ), Sam can barely tell how much time has passed. The girl next to him is still sleeping when Stark _finally_ dismisses the lecture hall, and Sam gently shakes her arm as he gets up. The look she gives him alerts him that she does not, in fact, want to be woken up. He strides away quickly.

Back at the house, Sam plops onto their cheap couch and shoves a pillow on his face. “ _Fuckin’ Steve Rogers_ ,” He mumbles, shaking his head. Closing his eyes, he replays the scene over and over again—handing Steve the pencil, and the way his fingertips brushed so lightly against his palm. Imagine if that were something that happened to him regularly? Sam lying next to Steve in bed, tracing absentminded patterns on his hand, eliciting that same smile he was given only an hour or so ago. With a soft hum of contentment, he drifts off for a moment, relishing the warmth that would come from being curled up next to the most handsome man to ever roam the Syracuse campus, when someone knocks at the door and startles him out of the light sleep.

“Who’s there?” He calls, getting up and rubbing his eyes a little. Not waiting for an answer, he opens the door. Immediately, his first instinct is to slam it shut, because the person at the door is none other than Steve Rogers, who is staring at him in a way that makes his stomach knot up and his throat dry out. Sam blinks once. Twice. But he’s still there, still waiting in the doorway and gazing at him longingly. Wait, _what_?

“Tell me you felt it too. Back there. When you touched me.” He murmurs, and Sam is stunned into complete silence. “Sam.” He crosses the threshold and grabs one of Sam’s hands, laces their fingers together and looks at him with piercing blue eyes. “Tell me your heart isn’t pounding out of its chest right now. I know mine is.”

“Steve…” Sam breathes, and the moment the name leaves his lips, Steve surges forward and presses his lips against Sam’s. It knocks the wind out of Sam, for a moment, but he finds his balance, and he kisses back roughly, carding his fingers roughly through Steve’s hair and moaning against his mouth. Somehow, they navigate their way across the main floor and into Sam’s (thankfully first floor) bedroom, where Steve bounces back onto the bed and strips his shirt off. Sam follows suit and climbs on top of him, kissing him desperately, wanting nothing more than to touch Steve _everywhere_. There are no words to describe the way his skin feels underneath Sam’s mildly-shaking hands—he’s so warm, he’s thrumming underneath his fingertips, and Sam dips his head, presses a sloppy kiss right at the center of his chest. Steve rocks his hips and makes a soft whining noise, and Sam feels every thought in his brain dissipate. “I gotcha, baby,” He murmurs, nuzzling just beneath Steve’s jaw. There’s a thudding in his ears—his heartbeat? The way it’s racing right now, just being able to do this to Steve, to have Steve like this…the thudding gets louder, chanting in his ears, drowning out the noises that Steve is making. Which, no, that’s not right, a heartbeat can’t be louder than—

“SAM! OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR.” Natasha shouts from outside, and Sam jerks upright, the pillow falling to the floor. He forgot to unlock the front door? _Shit_ , he had to get Steve—who was not there. _Oh god_ , Sam thinks in horror, _did I really just dream about fucking Steve_? “If you don’t open the door in three seconds, I swear—” Sam sprints to the door as best he can, attempting to hide his dick behind the pillow that had blocked out Nat’s shouting only a moment ago.

“SorryIdidn’tunlockthedoorgonnagoshowerokaybye,” He babbles and then climbs the stairs two at a time, not waiting for a response. He slams the bathroom door shut and strips his clothes off, images of Steve’s flushed torso practically burned into his eyelids. Feeling hot and feverish, Sam turns on the shower and takes a few steadying breaths before climbing in. With a mildly-painful thud, he falls back against the tiles of the shower and grabs his cock, sensitive and throbbing from the imagery his brain subjected him to. The hot water pelts his body, steam filling every part of the shower, and Sam leans his head back against the wall as he starts pumping himself. It doesn’t take much for him to really get going—Steve’s body, warm and real, squirming underneath him—the image of Steve grabbing him and kissing him, passionate and thoughtless—Steve saying his name like it was some kind of realization, an epiphany which had been reached at Sam’s door—Sam is panting loudly and the images keep coming, images of Steve’s naked body arching up for him, of pushing into him for the first time and hearing him moan, of nails raking angry red marks down his spine. One image flickers into his head after another, flooding his mind and his senses with Steve, and it’s so much, it’s so _much_ , and he comes so hard he sees stars in his eyes, imagining the hand stroking him through it is Steve’s. All his energy sapped, Sam sinks against the tiled wall and lets the water pelt him and wash away his mess. He scrubs a hand over his close-cropped hair and exhales, ducking his head so the water hits the back of his neck. _Jesus_. Had he really gotten that hot-and-bothered because he accidentally touched Steve’s hand? Sam shakes his head in disbelief.

The last time this had happened, it had been almost two years ago, when he and his former boyfriend were just starting to move to the next stage of their relationship. Riley was always so _good_ at getting him riled up like this, and Sam cracks a soft smile hearing his voice, sounding taunting as usual. The warm memory fades, though, and it hits Sam that it’s been a long time since he’s even _thought_ about doing anything with anyone since Riley. The thought is piercing. He sinks lower in the tub as he feels that door open after being locked for a while. The blinding white smile, the teasing nicknames, the way he had screamed when the truck rammed into the side of their car—Sam takes a shuddering breath and grips the side of the tub with his hand. He doesn’t get out.

A while later, after the hot water has gone cold and someone starts banging on the bathroom door, he finally stands up and steps out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around his waist and grabbing the clothes he had practically torn up in his desperate attempt to get into the shower quickly enough, he slips downstairs and into his room without attracting too much attention—except from the source of the knocking, but Clint had looked like he had other worries that required attention before “why does my roommate look tired”. Sam absentmindedly pulls on a pair of boxers and then collapses onto his bed, exhaustion creeping in from the corners of his mind. He drifts into sleep once more, hoping that he won’t dream about touching Steve again.

xx

The rest of the week passes uneventfully. Friday in Economics, Steve doesn’t show up. Sam thinks it’s for the better, because now he can focus on the lecture and not on the blonde hair curling at the base of Steve’s neck.

There’s a little pang, though. He wishes Steve were there.

xx

Saturday sneaks up on all of them. If anybody is the most prepared, actually, it’s probably Sam. He’s the one who strolls up to where Clint and Bucky are snuggled up on the loveseat and asks if they’re going to “stay there all day or actually go out”, to which both of them roll their eyes and then realize that, _damn_ , they’re going out.

“Seriously? You seriously forgot about your date? Oh _man_ am I glad I’m not dating you guys. That shit is inexcusable.” Sam reprimands mockingly. Bucky sticks his middle finger in Sam’s face, and Clint is grimacing. Sam laughs himself out of the room.

But it all comes together eventually.

The gang—Sam, Bucky, Natasha, and Clint—arrive at the party just as people are starting to fill in. Well, it’s more Sam and BuckyNatashaClint, seeing as they’re already all over each other. It probably wasn’t a good idea to pregame, but Sam shrugs it off, the buzz in his head giving him a nice distraction. What’s a little pre-game when the rest of the night is going to be hardcore drinking? It makes perfect sense. As soon as they get through the doorway, Sam is immediately left alone as his friends try to find space that’ll accommodate all three of them.

“Wilson!” Someone shouts, and Sam turns, looking for the source of the voice. He finds it in his lab partner, James, who is currently sitting by a table covered with shot glasses. “Over here. First one to pass out has to do all the lab work for next Tuesday.” He grins, his curly hair falling a little into his eyes. There’s nothing really significant about James to Sam—just a regular white boy with dirty blonde hair and a nice laugh—but right now Sam couldn’t care less, and decides that he’ll be a fun distraction from the mess in his head.

“Hell fuckin’ yes, man! Bring it.” He sits down at the table and starts throwing the drinks back, wincing at their strength but refusing to lose. James is talking—but the music is too loud, and Sam can’t hear a damn thing. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Whatever he’s saying isn’t important, and isn’t relevant to the fact that he won’t have to finish the lab papers for their environmental science class. One, two, three…each shot he took cleared his mind for a moment, and he’d look around the place, trying to find the glint of Nat’s bright hair in the flashing lights, but failing. But then the haze of alcohol would fall back on him, and the world around their shot table blurred.

A few minutes later, James passes out. With as much sober strength as he can muster, Sam gets up and, with the help of a couple less-buzzed guys, helps him to a couch, where they prop him on his side and try and slap him awake. It works, somehow—he opens his eyes, coughs once, and then vomits all over the floor. The guys practically sprint away from him as he gets up and tries to find a bathroom. Taking a deep breath, Sam starts to look for Nat and the gang, and lucks out when he finds them sprawled all over a couch a few minutes later. Bottles are strewn across both side tables, and Bucky and Clint are on either side of her. She’s relaxed—as usual, because in general, as far as Sam knows, she’s really chill like this. He sits down heavily in front of her on the opposing couch. She’s obviously drunk—almost as drunk as he is, but much more composed, of course. Buck is trying to bite his way up her jaw, and Clint is pressing kisses to her bare shoulder. Nat’s smile gets bigger as she notices Sam sitting across from her.

"Do you know this guy?" She yells over the music, probably referring to the person hosting this party. Sam shakes his head.

"Thought you did." He shouts back. The blaring of the speakers should be really giving him a killer headache, but he’s too drunk to care, which is why he leans forward and places a hand a little too high on her thigh. She’s giving him her full attention, now, her eyes immediately flickering up to meet his. They’re dark with lust, but still sharp—still Natasha. Sam opens his mouth to say something, but the words are gone, replaced by a voice telling him to down another few chugs of the shitty frat house beer he had picked up on his way over. He listens to it, of course, and then removes his hand with a slightly apologetic, slightly flirtatious look. She rolls her eyes at him playfully.

"So, Rogers," She says, sitting up more and attempting to move her boyfriends off for a moment to get closer. They oblige after a few shoves, allowing Nat to stand up shakily and then plop herself down next to Sam. "What’s with you and him?" Sam takes a breath.

“I don’t know,” He confesses. “I’ve liked him for a while, now, and he—you said he likes me, right? Because he let me talk about—” Natasha waves her hand in acknowledgement, and he stops. “I’m just nervous about him. He’s gorgeous, and I would climb him like a tree, but I don’t know what I’d do if he actually liked me back or anything. You know?” He shakes his head. “Nah, you’re set. You’re with people you love. I really want to find that. I mean, after—” He cuts himself off, afraid of the subject that was his last boyfriend. Natasha, even in the state she’s in, sees where he almost went.

“Sam…” She murmurs, reaching over to pat his knee clumsily. Halfway there, though, she stops and looks up. A bright smile stretches across her face. "Steve!" She exclaims happily, clamping her hand on Sam’s shoulder to balance herself as she gets up. He feels like the entire room has come to a complete halt.  _Steve? No, no no no no no, oh god_. He takes a swig of his drink and prays to god that he doesn’t come over, that maybe he won’t even see Sam there—

"You look like hell, Nat," Steve teases, walking over to where they were sitting and enveloping her in a hug. "Drinking by yourself? That’s a shame." He’s got the Sober Athelete look on tonight, and Sam wonders why. Of all people, the captain of the football team should be the one partying it up.

“‘m not by myself,” She gushes. “I’ve got Sammy over here.” She gestures to him, and in that moment he swears he sees the glint of mischief in her eyes. He is going to  _kill_  her if he makes it out of this party alive. “Oh, and the boys. But you know how they are.”

"Sammy, huh?" Steve asks, a playful smirk settling nicely on his face. "I didn’t figure you’d be a Sammy kind of guy, Wilson." He extends a hand, and Sam somehow manages to convince his sluggish brain to reach out and grab it.

“I’m whatever kind of guy you want me to be, I guess.” He replies. Nat snorts. Steve’s smirk explodes into a full-on smile, and he laughs brightly before letting go of him.

“Mind if I sit next to you, Sam?” He asks. Sam shakes his head a little too enthusiastically, and Steve settles next to him. He leans in for a moment, to whisper in Sam’s ear: “I don’t know if I want to sit next to _them_. Bucky is aggressive on the field—I don’t wanna think about what he’s like off.” Sam snorts loudly.

“My friend,” He says, his words slurring a little, “the three of them are _awful_. All I hear on weekends is the sound of creaking springs and a lot of sound I really, _really_ did not need to hear. It’s nasty. They’re so…” He trails off, the thought fading away as the beer in his hand suddenly feels heavier. He takes a few swigs and then sets it down on the table. “So what’re you doin’ here without a beer or somethin’? ‘s a party, you should knock a couple back with us.”

“I’m not much of a drinker, actually.” Steve answers with a smile. “Too many calories in beer.”

“Ohhh, that’s _right_ ,” Sam answers in jest, “’cause you’ve gotta keep those in check.” He rests a hand against Steve’s abs. “Holy shit, are those _rocks_?” Steve laughs again.

“Yeah. Can’t go around having all the fun you do.” He replies, poking Sam’s belly.

“I’ll have you know,” Sam answers while reaching for his beer, “that I am _very_ fit. Not all of us are built like super soldiers, y’know.” He shakes the hand holding his drink, and it spills on his shirt a little. “See what you do?” Steve raises his hands innocently, but Sam just grins devilishly. “Guess I’m just gonna have to take this off, then.” He puts his drink down again and peels his shirt off to match at least half of the guys around the house. He tosses his shirt onto the back of the couch and sits back down, the smile on his face exuding confidence. “See? Fit.” Sam points at his own set of abs.

“Oh, I see.” Steve pauses. “I mean, if that’s what you want to call it.”

Sam looks at him, pretending to be shocked. “Oh, so that’s how it is?”

“Oh, that’s how it is.” Steve’s face breaks into another one of those infectious grins, and Sam feels his heart lodging itself up in his throat. To stop it from rising and spilling out, he grabs his bottle of almost-empty beer and raises it to his lips. To his surprise, Steve reaches out and holds onto it. Their fingers are pressed together on the bottle. “You look like you’ve had quite a few of those, huh?” He says, but his voice isn’t sarcastic or condescending. It’s soft. Sam cracks a smile, but doesn’t say a word. Steve chuckles. “Remember? You’ve got a football game to be at tomorrow.” He looks down at his phone. “Today, actually. C’mere. Let’s get you home.”

“Whatever you say, _Captain_ ,” Sam slurs, setting the drink down and attempting to get up from his seat. His knees buckle a little as he stands, though, and Steve is immediately there, one arm slung around his waist to tether him to something steady, while the other is pulling Sam’s arm over his shoulder. He looks at Natasha pointedly, who bats her eyelashes at him innocently before resuming her session with Clint and Bucky, who don’t seem to have noticed any change.

“Can you walk?” Steve asks, and Sam nods, putting one foot in front of another to prove it. Steve doesn’t let go, but starts walking towards where his car is parked. “I’ve got you, don’t worry. Keep walking, bud.” With much effort, they manage to get buckled in and drive away.

“You feeling sick?” Steve asks, concern in his voice. Sam shakes his head, remaining quiet for a moment to dull the nausea.

“Nah. Gut of iron, right here.” He replies after a moment. “Never really been one to—” He takes another breath, “—you know. Get sick.”

“Yeah? Interesting.” Steve replies, mostly to himself. The car rolls up to his driveway, and Sam all but falls out of the passenger seat and onto the pavement to avoid getting sick in front of Steve.

xx

Sam wakes up in his bed, head pounding and mouth dry. _Shit_ , he thinks as he sits up. _How much did I have to drink last night_? He doesn’t remember much, but then again, it’s hard to when it feels like something is splitting open your skull. He reaches over to his phone and unlocks it, ready to text Nat and ask where she is, when—

**Three Missed Calls: Unknown**. The little blurb pops up on his screen and he raises an eyebrow, noticing that there’s a few voicemails, too. He presses the little notification to check them. He puts his phone on speaker, then, and gets up to find some Ibuprofen in the medicine closet. He’s halfway there when—

“Hey, Sam.” Oh, shit. “It’s Steve. I was just calling to make sure you got home ok? I know you had a lot to drink last night, and I didn’t want to freak you out or anything, but you looked pretty out of it. You got sick almost as soon as you got in the door—so much for being Ol’ Iron Gut, right?—but other than that, you were pretty much out cold. I hope it’s ok that I grabbed your number. I just—I wanted to make sure you got home okay. And, damn, I just looked at the clock. It’s 8am. You’re probably still sleeping everything off. Anyway, hope your hangover isn’t terrible. Sorry for being creepy.” Steve laughs, and then the phone beeps and the voicemail is over.  Sam feels like his whole life has collapsed in on him. What had he _done_ to get Steve to help him home? In the background of his thoughts, he hears Natasha’s voicemail, all babbles about _Steve_ and then, at the end, a couple moans—probably caused by Bucky, who was always the one who got her more vocal. He grabs the painkillers from the closet and downs three of them to dull the throbbing at the back of his head, then walks back into his room and picks up his phone. There’s a little notification at the top, which he presses, and sees he has a new text message, too—from a number he doesn’t know. Steve?

**You ok?** is all it says, and yeah, that’s definitely Steve. He saves the number and then types out a reply.

_Yea. What happened?_ And then sends another one: _Nevermind. I dont wanna know._

**You’re ok! Good. You just kind of got inside, threw up in the bathroom, and then went to bed. Not a very exciting drinker, i’ve gotta say.**

_Haha, thanks i think. Anyway, i’m so sorry about last night. I’m sure you had other things you wanted to do._ Steve’s reply is almost immediate.

**Stop. I wasn’t doing anything anyway, and turns out i had practice early this morning, so you saved me from being the hungover qb. Thanks ;-)**

A grin practically splits Sam’s face in two. His phone pings again before he can come up with a reply. **Gotta go. I’ll see you tonite, sam :-)**

_Tonight_? For a heartstopping moment, Sam thinks that he asked Steve out in his drunken haze, and he thumps back onto his bed. Before any anxiety can hit him, though, he remembers that there’s a football game tonight, and Steve knows that Sam’s in the band. The sigh of relief echoes through his whole body.

_See ya_ , he types out, and then tries three different emojis before settling on the simple smiley one and hitting send. He doesn’t get a reply—not that he’s looking for one, not after everything that apparently happened. It doesn’t stop him from staring at his phone intently, though. He reaches over to listen to the voicemail again when he hears the front door open, which alerts him that his friends had _not_ made it home the way he did. Cautiously, he slips from his room and pads over to the front hall, where Natasha and Clint are leaning against Bucky heavily. They look more dead than hungover, Nat’s eyeliner completely smudged and giving her the raccoon look. Sam barely bites back a laugh.

“Good morning, buddies.” Sam hums cheerfully. “I’ll get the Advil. Just—sit down.” He heads back over to the cabinet, where he grabs the Advil and shakes six of them into his hand. Two each—that should be enough, right?

Of course, when he heads over, Bucky grabs three and downs them dry. Sam raises an eyebrow. Bucky gives him a look that would be lethal if looks could kill.

“I had to carry them back to the car. And from the car.” He states flatly. Sam nods in understanding, then shakes another pill into his palm and gives Nat and Clint two each. Clint smiles gratefully up at him, and Sam gives him a pat on the shoulder. Natasha looks like she’s going to kill someone. Probably him. She doesn’t say anything, though, just leans up against Bucky with a disgruntled sigh. Everybody knows better than to ask her what’s wrong—like this, she’ll complain about _everything_. In the spirit of not getting yelled at, all four of them remain silent, nursing their hangovers individually. Sam doesn’t bring up the fact that they never actually came home. They don’t mention that he left with Steve. It’s one of the things that Sam likes about living with them—they’re not intrusive people. For the most part.

“Do you guys need anything?” Sam asks in a low voice to avoid irritating any of them. No one says anything. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go take a shower. I’ll be out soon.”

“Don’t take too long,” Natasha teases dryly, and Sam feels his face getting hot at the memory of his last shower. He doesn’t say anything, though, just retreats upstairs to where the shower is. He picks his battles, and this one isn’t worth fighting, especially because it _will_ get nasty while they’re both mildly hungover and still a little bit buzzed. Hopefully, a cold shower will fix that for Sam.

xx

The football game is, of course, in freezing weather. Dr. Hill warned them all to dress in layers. “You’re either standing out there and playing for your team, or you’re walking out of this band right now with an F and no credit. Okay?” Her voice was casual enough, but the glint in her eyes had warned everybody within a 50-foot-radius to take her seriously. Sam sure as hell knew he wouldn’t let Clint get him into any trouble. He was always the best one for preparing for these games, anyway. It was always the long underwear, first—then, underneath his mandatory pants and jacket, he wore a zip-up hoodie (with wings painted on the back, because he’d always enjoyed being eccentric with his clothes) and his favorite Orangemen sweatpants, and then would finally tug on the awful orange-and-blue uniform over it all. Whenever it got really cold, he would bring his Syracuse-colored mohawk hat, which always got him compliments from the rest of the band and insults from Clint and Natasha. And Bucky, too, but those were usually in passing—“Dude, I can see your hat from the field” was the one he used most often. But Sam didn’t mind; they were said with love and affection.

Tonight is one of the coldest nights of the year. Bucky has to leave the house early to practice before the game, and the three of them are layering up in preparation for being beaten with freezing wind and ice-cold bleachers underneath them.

“Should I bring the pillow?” Clint shouts up the stairs, and Natasha makes a loud approving noise. He shrugs and tries to fold it with one arm, frustration almost immediately setting in. Sam clunks down the stairs in his three layers of clothing, and helps his friend pack it away. His next goal is to grab his trumpet case, where it _should_ be sitting with Natasha’s flute and Clint’s drumstick collection. He shuffles through the group instrument closet (which isn’t really a closet; it’s more of a cabinet than anything else) and, with a sigh of relief, finds the obnoxiously-stickered case sitting there, staring him in the face. He takes it out, and then, carefully, he picks up Natasha’s flute case and carries it out to the table in the middle of their living room so that she won’t have to strain herself. Even after napping for a good three hours to take away the sting of the remnants of the hangover, he knows doing this will just help her along. They collect themselves after that, for the most part, and pile into the car, which Sam drives over to the Carrier Dome where they’re supposed to meet in the parking lot.

“Ready to watch your boyfriend play?” Natasha teases from the back, and Sam rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything, his face heating up.

“Why do you do that _every_ week?” He asks after a moment. “We all know Rogers isn’t my boyfriend—”

“Yet.” Clint interjects helpfully. Natasha elbows him in the side and gives him a thumbs up, which he returns with a kiss. Sam makes a disgusted noise from up front and pulls into the parking lot.

“Y’all are gross.” He grabs his trumpet from the passenger seat and shuts the car off, getting out with a slam of the driver’s side door. “See you on the bleachers.”

He bitterly thinks over Natasha’s teasing as he puts his trumpet together in the freezing weather. Ever since she found out that he liked him, she wouldn’t stop teasing him about it. It was definitely her thing to tease him—but this felt weird. Wrong. Like the reminder of Steve’s presence only made it more glaringly obvious that they weren’t dating, and would never. He blows into his trumpet with an irritated look on his face. Of all the people to like— _all_ of them—why did Sam have to choose one of the most popular guys on campus? He’s always had that kind of luck, he guesses. Riley was the same way. For a while, anyway. Sam smiles a little, thinking about him. How dumb he was when he asked Sam out for the first time, and how he always looked perfect whenever they got together. It used to piss him off—why was he so good at this thing? But now, as he’s thinking about it, Sam thinks it’s endearing. His Riley. It had been a while since he _really_ thought about him, since the accident.

“Sam!” One of the other trumpet players says, plopping down next to him on the bleachers and knocking Sam’s thoughts away from the dangerous path they were headed down. “Dr. Hill says we’re marching tonight.”

“Really? God _damn_.” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “We’re gonna suck ass. Shit, we haven’t even practiced marching together after that one rehearsal that was what, a week ago? Jesus.”

“We have to go up against Penn State’s group,” The guy says like he’s completely in agreement with Hill. “If we sit here and just play, they’ll think we’re musically incapable of competing.”

“Yeah, well we are!”

“You remember what to do, right? You’ll be fine. Worry about you, not about what everyone else does.” He knocks Sam in the shoulder gently and turns his attention back to the field. _Worry about you_ , Sam repeats in his head. It’s something he should do more, rather than worry about what some stupid guy thinks of him. The guy is right. Sam’s pretty sure he’s a sophomore. When did sophomores get so wise? He doesn’t think he was that way last year.

xx

Marching isn’t a complete disaster. Everyone knows what they’re doing, to an extent, and only a couple people forget the music. Sam is pretty happy with the result he gave, and almost completely forgets about his angst from earlier. He’s walking back over to the bleachers when the football team runs out from their halftime meeting. Sam sees Steve near the middle of the pack, his helmet settled nicely underneath his arm. He looks over and meets Sam’s gaze. He smiles. (It’s the same smile from Sam’s dreams, the one that makes his throat dry up.) Sam smiles back. He feels like he’s going to puke his heart up.

xx

Sam is skimming through notes for another class when he hears his phone buzz from across the room. He grumbles under his breath and gets up from where he’s sitting on his bed, wandering to where his phone is discarded by its charger on the floor. _Hopefully it’s not another surprise rehearsal courtesy of Dr. Hill_ , he prays silently, unlocking it and opening his inbox. His heart stops. It’s a text from Steve.

**You doing anything right now?**

_Nothing fun. You gonna change that?_

**Haha, if you think economics is fun, then yes, i am**

_What?_

**Hold on,**

Sam stares at his phone with an eyebrow raised in confusion. His phone rings, though, a moment later.

“Steve?”

“Sorry about this. I figured—y’know, it’ll be easier to talk to you than text.” He pauses for a moment. “I wasn’t in Econ on Friday, and I sort of have no clue what we’re doing.”

“That makes two of us, man,” Sam jokes, trying to keep his laughter from sounding nervous.

“Really?” Steve’s voice on the other end doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s funny. “Jesus, sorry, Sam, I’ll just—”

“Steve, wait. I was kidding.” Sam blurts in what he hopes was a not-too-desperate voice. “Did you want to look at my notes or something? Because I—I get what Stark is teaching us.”

“Oh, thank _god_ ,” He replies, relief flooding his voice. “I don’t know anybody else in that class that I could ask for help. If you’re free, can we get together and go over stuff? I’m not really good at learning without being taught first.”

“I. Uh.” This isn’t a date. Calm down. “Sure, where do you want to meet up?”

“How does the coffee shop on campus sound?”

“That sounds great. Guess it’s a date, then!” Sam says enthusiastically, and then freezes. Oh no. _Oh no._ “I—”

“I guess it is! I’ll see you there, Sam.” Steve replies cheerily, as if Sam didn’t just accidentally spill his secret feelings over the phone. He hangs up, and Sam stands there, frozen in place. _It’s a date?!_ He whacks himself in the forehead once or twice and then exhales quietly. He smoothes his shirt down so that it doesn’t look _too_ wrinkled, and then grabs his Economics binder and practically flies out the front door, not bothering to tell his roommates anything besides “I’ve got my phone bye”. The coffee shop, unfortunately, is across campus from where his house is, so by the time he speed-walks there, Steve is sitting at one of the far tables, and he’s got two coffees in front of him. Wait, what?

“Sam.” Steve says brightly as he notices him standing in the doorway. “Over here.” Sam walks over, trying to not look terrified. “I got you a coffee. Hope you don’t mind the house blend, ‘cause that’s all I drink.” Sam doesn’t have the heart to tell Steve that he doesn’t drink coffee, not anymore, so he just smiles gratefully and then picks the cup up and takes a sip. The scalding bitterness practically makes him spit the drink back out, but he forces it down with another smile. “Thank you for coming. Seriously, I am so lost in that class it’s not even funny.”

“Well, I mean, it’s a little funny. You’re the captain of the football team and you’re asking a band geek for help—”

“Why would that be funny? Anyway, I’m not asking a ‘band geek’,” he replies, putting air quotes around Sam’s terminology. _God_ , it’s adorable. “I’m asking a friend.” Sam feels his throat doing that thing it does around Steve, so he takes another sip of coffee to keep it at bay. “What’d I miss in class?”

“Not much. Lots of rambling about graphs and…you know. The usual stuff with this class.”

“I actually don’t.” Steve admits sheepishly, rubbing an embarrassed hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t want to spring this on you, Sam, but can you just—like—give me the rundown? All the basics that he taught us on the first day that I definitely was _not_ paying attention to?”

Sam smiles. “Totally, man. Here, these are the notes from the first day.” Sam slides the notebook full of his writing over the table, and Steve takes it gratefully. “Tell me if you can’t read anything. I’ve been told my writing looks like birdscratch.” He laughs to himself, remembering Natasha’s reaction to one of the papers he had asked her to look over.

“You’re good,” Steve replies simply, eyebrows furrowing slightly with every line he skimmed through.  “This, though—what does this mean? Like, the concept behind it?” He points to one of the graphs that Sam had messily sketched at the bottom of the page. Sam looks closer.

“That’s the price-ceiling, price-floor graph.” He explains, pointing at the intersecting graphs. It was a concept Stark passed over in brief that was something he _probably_ should have reviewed. Sam continues to explain, but he’s not really registering his own words. He’s looking at Steve, who’s intently looking at the notes and nodding his head in understanding. Or, assumed understanding. Sam doesn’t really care—he’s the one sitting in a coffee shop with the guy he’s liked for almost a full year, and he’s getting said guy’s full attention. It’s something he wouldn’t have _dreamed_ of really happening a week ago.

Sam realizes too late that he must’ve stopped talking at some point, because Steve waves a hand in front of his face. “Earth to Sam? Sam?” He asks, jokingly at first but then with caution. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Sorry, man, I just—”

“Spaced out?” Steve finishes. “Yeah, I do that a lot too. I was just worried—I heard about what happened with—I mean, nevermind.”

“Riley?” Sam feels lead settling in his stomach. The coffee he had just drank is suddenly scalding his tongue, the bitter taste reminding him vividly of his last experience with coffee. He got out alive. Riley hadn’t. Sam closes his eyes and takes a breath, one hand curling into a fist on the table. _Breathe, Sam, breathe_ , he chanted silently, begging the drowning feeling to go away. _Count it away, just count_ —his thoughts are interrupted when a warm weight clamps down on his wrist. He opens his eyes to see Steve’s hand resting on top of his own.

“You don’t—I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Sam. I overstepped way too much, I didn’t mean for that to get personal. Here, we can just—keep—?” Steve is rambling, and Sam would think it was adorable if it weren’t for the fact that Steve knew about what happened with his last boyfriend. _Jesus_. “If you don’t want to keep going, it’s totally fine. I’m really, really sorry, Sam. I’ll—”

“You’ve gotta stop being so worried about me, Cap.” Sam replies, months of practice coming back to him at a moment’s notice. This has happened before. People have gotten curious. Sam exhales as casually as he can manage, and then continues. “I’m fine. I’m not gonna leave you here, floundering with your econ work.” The smile that appears on Steve’s face is one mingled with relief and something else Sam can’t really identify. “Are you getting all this down?”

“Yessir.” Steve nods, mimicking a soldier’s salute. Sam cracks a smile.

“C’mon, soldier, let’s keep going. What does this graph mean?”

xx

It’s become routine for them, somehow—studying at the coffee house for hours on end, Sam re-teaching Steve everything that Professor Stark had babbled at them the previous class. Steve constantly praises him, telling him that _he_ should be the one teaching the class. Sam always shakes his head and gives him a dumbfounded smile. But then, Sam realizes, this routine has started to derail. He realizes that he spends more time talking to Steve about life and the universe and moral responsibility than about Economics. He spends more time looking into Steve’s eyes, and he’s being stared at right back, those blue eyes locked on his every move, and _when_ did this happen? When did he stop fearing space and start moving closer to Steve? It hits him, one morning, as he’s lying in bed and staring at a text from Steve that has him snorting with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Natasha asks, peering in. Sam looks up at her.

“Oh, I just—Steve.” He replies, as if that answers everything. It should’ve, he thinks. But then his best friend gets _that look_ on her face, and his smile starts to wane a little. “What.”

“You really don’t know?” She asks, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. “Sam, you’re giggling in your bed over a text message from your crush. You are a _teenager_ all over again.” She pauses. “Actually, I don’t think you ever grew out of that stage.” He flings a pillow in her direction, which she easily avoids.

“It’s not like that, Nat, I—” He starts, but then stops. She’s absolutely right. He was getting dangerously close to Steve. “Shit.”

“It’s cute.” She sighs disgustedly, and Sam gets up from his bed to give her a pointed look. She shrugs. “I think he likes you just as much as you like him.” Before he can reply, she turns away from his doorframe and strides away. _Does_ Steve like him? They’ve been getting together to study for a solid week and a half, now, and there’s been no sign that Steve is romantically interested at _all_. And that’s fine, that’s totally fine—except for the fact that Sam can’t get over the butterflies in his chest when he sees smile at him, or when he notices that Steve is looking at him with an amused expression. He can’t stop the feeling of elation every time he gets a text message, no matter what it says. Steve’s use of emoticons is appalling, and it’s always made Sam smile. He wouldn’t be able to stop those feelings—what if he spilled? What if, one day, he kissed him without thinking? And it scared him away? Sam doesn’t want to be anything that Steve doesn’t want, but if Steve didn’t like Sam that way—

**Lol, what are you doing right now? If youre in the mood, i was gonna go shoot some hoops ;-)**

Sam sighs at the text. The little wink face was totally a Steve thing to do, but—

_Sorry, can’t. Rehearsal starts in like 20 minutes and i don’t want dr.hill mad @ me._

He throws the phone down on his bed and ignores the way it vibrates with Steve’s response. He can’t do this, not right now—he can’t mess everything up because of a stupid crush. He grabs his trumpet and puts on a jacket, and heads over to one of the smaller buildings of the music campus. He doesn’t want to lie to Steve; plus, there’s a concert in a week and a half, and he’s got to prepare for when—he’s calling it right now—the soloist chokes right before they go on. His phone remains back at the house. The snow pelts his face and stings his eyes, but he marches through it and into one of the practice rooms, where he lies down on the floor, for a moment, to collect himself. His trumpet case is on the other side of the room. His folder is with it, propped up against the soundproof wall.

“Fuck.” He says aloud. Then, “FUCK!” With an anger building in the pit of his stomach, Sam gets up off the floor and pulls a chair and stand up to the center of the room. He unpacks his trumpet and sets his music in front of him, and he channels the anger into the brass mouthpiece pressed up against his lips. What was he angry about? Steve not liking him back? Being so close to someone who doesn’t feel the same way? Putting himself in this situation in the first place? He fumes quietly, playing the same measures over and over again until he has perfected each note, each individual phrase. He doesn’t look at the clock until much later.

xx

He stops texting Steve altogether. Maybe it’s better this way.

It definitely doesn’t feel like it.

xx

Their concert approaches quickly, after that, and Sam throws himself into the music. Dr. Hill pulls him aside, after one class, and asks if everything is okay. “You seem really…”

“Focused? Yeah. Just clearing my head, you know.” Sam replies before she can say anything else. He slips away from her and gives himself a mental pat on the back. If Hill is noticing, that means he’s doing something right. Maybe he’ll get that iconic solo and be able to add it to his list of conquered pieces. He smiles to himself as he leaves the music building.

And then, in a flurry of events and conversations and music, it’s the night of the concert. Sam shows up a little earlier than required, only for Dr. Hill to pull him aside _again_. “It’s Jackson.” She says simply. It takes a moment for him to remember, but then—“The solo’s yours. Go grab the music from the podium.” Sam feels like his face is going to split in half, he’s smiling so wide. Natasha shows up a little after him, and the look he gives her when she walks through the doors tells her everything. She rolls her eyes, but plops down next to him and nudges him.

“So, what’d you do? Poison the poor kid? He’s barely a sophomore.” She teases, and he holds up his hands in innocence.

“Hey, Hill just told me now. Can’t say I didn’t call it, but…” He trails off. “Anyway, where’s your Little Drummer Boy? I thought he was supposed to be playing with us tonight. His arm’s better, right?” Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, but he’s got a football game. He and Buck are _required_ to be there. Plus, I don’t think Hill knows that he’s better, so she’s not expecting him to actually show up tonight.”

“Damn. And I was gonna show off for him, too.” Sam pouts jokingly.

It’s about then that Dr. Hill brings everybody together for warm-ups, and all joking has been brushed aside. They tune and rehearse for a few minutes, and then the silence of the stage envelops them all. Then Hill walks out after them, and the audience erupts into applause when she bows. As she rises, she gestures to the rest of the group, and then, once she turns around, the music begins. The songs go by in a blur for Sam—he’d known all of them well enough, and they weren’t that memorable. The trumpets were featured in both suites, and his solo ends up sounding flawless, as usual. The hard work that had gone into it, all the emotion and the anger that had fueled his practice, had worked out fantastically. And then the concert is done. The applause is thunderous, and she gestures for Sam to stand, as the featured soloist of the night. He does so and looks around, smiling, watching all these people he didn’t know applaud for him. His eyes skim over the crowd one last time, not looking for anything in particular, when he spots a blonde head that makes him falter. Steve is there, in the middle of the crowd, standing and applauding. Sam’s breath catches in his throat. Dr. Hill has the rest of the orchestra stand, then, so it’s okay for him to look over frantically to Natasha, who’s calmly smiling at the audience. She turns her head and catches his eye, and the look Sam gives her is one of pure shock and panic. She responds with narrowed eyebrows and a sarcastic expression.

“What the hell? I thought you said there’s a football game tonight!” Sam hisses as they exit the stage and head back to put their music and instruments away. Without looking away from her flute, she whacks him in the arm. He deflates a little bit,

“There is. Don’t snap at me, asshole, it’s not my fault that you’re not happy that the guy you like probably showed up to hear you play. Jesus.” She takes the instrument apart and puts it away with her back turned to him. “Maybe he wants to talk to you.” Like the sneak she is, she slips away from him before he can protest, so he chooses to focus on the concert and not on the fact that Steve Rogers, lead QB of the Syracuse Orangemen, skipped his football game to watch him perform. He heads out of the building to avoid the risk of running into Steve. He can’t do that—not when he’s been so good at staying strong and staying _away_. He heads out into the cold and trudges home, stepping in feet of snow. It’s not that cold, though—knowing that Steve was there makes him feel a little warmer inside.

xx

 According to the internet, exercise is a good way to distract oneself from thinking too much about anything. Sam takes this into stride, after the concert incident, and decides to head to the gym. “It’s about damn time,” Natasha calls from the other side of the house, “your arms are looking pretty scrawny.”

“I’m _lean_ , that means I’m _lean_!” He yells back before pulling on sweatpants and a hoodie over his workout clothes. The door closes on her loud laughter. He grumbles under his breath and then hops into the car to drive to the campus gym. He arrives just as the linemen are leaving—more specifically, Odinson, who’s built like a damn house and could probably lift two Sams without really trying. Grateful to avoid the football team, he strips from his sweats and heads into the weight room, eyeing the wingspan machine in the corner. He paces over and sits down, adjusting the weight to a reasonable starting point, when he hears the door open. He thinks nothing of it, settling on forty pounds to begin with.

“On your left,” Someone says, and Sam makes an acknowledging sound. He looks to his left to see—oh. Steve is sitting at the machine next to him, a smile stretched across his face. Shit.

“Alright then,” Sam laughs forcibly, turning his attention back to the machine he’s sitting at. This shouldn’t be a problem, as long as—

“Did I do something wrong?” Steve asks, shifting closer to Sam. “I mean, you haven’t texted me back in a while, and I thought ‘Maybe it’s just band!’ but I mean. The concert was a few days ago. And you still haven’t replied. That sounds really creepy, doesn’t it? Nevermind.” He laughs, and Sam could almost say that he sounds nervous. Almost.

“You didn’t do anything, Steve.” Sam says in an attempt to stop Steve’s almost-nerves. He doesn’t say anything else. What if this is it, what if he explodes right here?

“Are you alright?” Concern bleeds into Steve’s voice. Sam starts working the machine, trying his hardest not to get sucked into those dangerous blue eyes. “Sam, if you’re not okay—”

“I’m _fine_ , Steve.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as short, but it does, anyway. He fixates his eyes on the floor. “There’s just a lot on my plate right now, that’s all.” _Why_ is this happening, why couldn’t he just not be in love with this damn boy? There were plenty of good looking guys on the football team, with nice smiles and kind personalities— _what makes Steve so special_?

“Is there anything I can do to help?” His voice is soft. Sam refuses to look at him. If he does, he’ll spill. He swears it, he’ll puke up his heart and tell Steve he’s liked him for so long that he thinks it’s turned into love. _This_ is what sets Steve apart from everyone else. His soft voice, his kind eyes, the way he wants to just lift the problems right from Sam’s shoulders. “Just let me know.” Of course. Sam chuckles bitterly, shaking his head.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He gets up from the machine and heads across the room. Steve gets up and follows him. _Why_?

“Look, Sam, I’m _sorry_ , but I just want to help.” Steve says exasperatedly, carding a hand through his hair in frustration. “Please, let me just help you. Talk to me. What are friends for?”

“I _can’t_ be your friend, Steve!” Sam shouts, stunning him into silence. Here it comes. The dam that’s been holding back his feelings for this long has burst. “I can’t _just_ be your friend. I don’t know how to. And for a while, I really wanted to get close to you like that, y’know? To just be able to hang out and chat and _not_ feel the butterflies in my stomach. I tried so hard. But…Steve, I might as well come out and say it. I’ve liked you for almost a year and a half. I’m sorry. I know you don’t feel the same way, and that’s fine, but I can’t be your friend. It’s too much for me. I can’t do it.” He runs his hands down his face, feeling simultaneously weightless and impossibly heavy. It’s done. Steve knows. He _knows_ that Sam likes him, now, and there’s no going back from that. The way he’s standing, slouched slightly, looking completely startled. This is where Sam gets shut down. “I’m gonna go.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking.

“Sam.” Steve says, and Sam whips around. A twinge of hope stirs in his chest. Is he going to…? “I’m sorry.” _Ah_. There it is. Sam forces a smile, nods, and then walks out. At least it was quick. At least Steve didn’t have to feel bad about Sam avoiding him. _It was out of love_ , he reasons mentally. Isn’t it always? _It’s not you, it’s me_.

“Sam!” He turns around and sees Steve running towards him, bounding through snow and headed right for him. “Fuck, Sam, I can’t let you walk away. I can’t.” Before he can react to any of that—Steve _cursing?_ —Steve grabs his arms and looks him straight in the face. “I don’t want you to be my friend, Sam. God, I did, once, but watching you perform the other night...it woke me up. You’re so passionate, Sam; you took time out of your schedule to tutor me in a class that I honestly barely paid attention to. You’re so close to Nat and Clint and Bucky, and you stick by them no matter what. You’re _gorgeous_ —you’re humble and friendly and smart and I have never, _never_ wanted to be your friend less than in this moment right now.” Again, before Sam can react, Steve moves his hands to cup his face, and then they’re kissing. Steve is kissing him, god, and Sam kisses right back. He’s pressed up against Steve, digging his fingers into Steve’s hair, heating up from Steve’s touch, and it’s _incredible._ They part for air once, briefly, and then knock their foreheads together, breathing heavily.

“Your heart’s beating really fast.” Sam mutters, and Steve chuckles, tilting his head slightly.

“Yeah? Tell me yours isn’t pounding.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, though—only closes the space between them once more, kissing Sam like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to do. _If this is me dreaming again_ , Sam thinks, _it’s even better than the last time_.

xx

They get together officially a few days later. Natasha says she “called it”; Clint disagrees with her, claiming that he had some kind of hand in it. Bucky rolls his eyes and gives him a thumbs up.

xx

It’s the night before Steve’s last football game of the year, and Sam is lucky enough to get the house to himself. He didn’t really ask where his friends were going for the night, but it didn’t matter, because Clint had assured him that he’d have the house to himself. He then waggles his eyebrows, and Sam whacks him in the back of the head.

“You’re gross, man,” He teases. Clint grumbles something good-naturedly under his breath and then heads out the door. In moments, Sam texts Steve the good news. It doesn’t take long for there to be a knock at the door, and Sam practically flings it open. His boyfriend is leaning against one of the posts on their front porch, grinning at him like he’s got a secret.

“Is there a Sam Wilson here?” He asks innocently, and Sam rolls his eyes dramatically. “I’ve got a _package_ for him.”

“I swear to god, Rogers, you’re testing my patience,” Sam says in an only-slightly-serious tone. Steve chuckles and strides into the house, grabbing him by the waist and kissing him quiet. It’s rough and messy and hungry, and Sam moans as he deepens the kiss, desperate to be as close to Steve as he can be. His hand comes up to rake through the blonde hair like an anchor, and the sensation forces a break in their kiss as Steve shudders, nuzzling closer. “You really wanna start this right here?” Sam murmurs breathlessly, Steve’s panted exhales blowing warm air against his face. “Bedroom’s right that way.” He points to the other side of the floor, and Steve grins wickedly at him.

“Thank god there aren’t any stairs,” He replies, and lunges in for another paralyzing kiss. They stay leaned against the wall for a few moments longer, hands exploring sweatshirt-covered chests and cold cheeks. The next time they part for air, Sam manages to find use of his legs. He slips from Steve’s grasp and darts away, a challenging spark in his eye as Steve turns to find him. “Oh, it’s _on_ ,” He says, and runs after Sam, who turns and sprints to his bedroom. Steve catches up to him easily, and as they hit the carpeted doorway, he barrels into Sam, knocking them both onto the bed with a _thud_. The pain doesn’t hit either of them, and Sam crawls back up onto the bed, shoving his pants down and toeing his socks off. Steve does the same, peeling his shirt away, too. He’s bracketing Sam, his arms on either side of his boyfriend’s shoulders, straddling his hips. For a moment, all they do is stare at each other—Sam’s hand rests against the flatness of Steve’s abs, feeling the thrum of his body underneath his fingertips.

“God…” He murmurs. He doesn’t get to finish the thought, because Steve kisses the words off his lips. It’s gentle. Tender. Steve gazes down at him when they part, a soft smile settled on his face.

“You’re fantastic.” He breathes. “You’re just—you’re beautiful, Sam.” He slips a hand under Sam’s shirt and gently rakes his nails against the skin of his stomach. Sam shivers. “I could spend all day—”

“I know, I know, how’d you land such a catch?” He teases lightheartedly, lifting a hand to his cheek. “That’s sweet, but we’ve got all day to do whatever you want to me. For now…” He gestures to the erection currently tenting his boxers. Steve snorts.

“So romantic,” He deadpans. However, he kisses Sam briefly on the lips, and then makes his way down his torso, kissing a line right down from his jaw to the curve of his hipbones. He smirks teasingly against the hot skin and then drags the offending fabric away from Sam’s cock. “Mmm, look at me, _Sammy_.” Steve’s voice hits Sam’s ears immediately, and he watches, wide-eyed, as Steve takes Sam’s length in his mouth and hollows his cheeks. He doesn’t break eye contact—not even when he pops off with a wet noise and runs his tongue up and down the shaft. Sam chokes on a gasp, his hands gripping his sheets. _Jesus_ , _who knew Steve Rogers was so good at sucking dick_? The rest of the thoughts that follow are incoherent, and he sputters ridiculous praise as Steve continues to work for it, humming and moaning while Sam is in his mouth.

“God, Steve, I’m—I’m gonna—” Sam stammers, and Steve immediately removes Sam’s dick from his mouth. Sam whimpers a little at the loss of the pressure.

“Not yet.” He says, his voice husky, and strips off his underwear. He’s standing fully naked in front of Sam, a determined look in his lust-darkened eyes, and reaches over for the lube and condoms he had packed—he really _did_ have a package for Sam, why would Steve Rogers _ever_ lie? “How d’you want it, baby?” He’s crawled back up over Sam, his lips _just_ brushing against the collarbone. Sam lets out a stuttering sigh and turns over, head buried in the pillow and legs pulled up beneath him. “Mmmm, perfect.” With deftly-lubed fingers, Steve starts to open Sam up—one finger turns into two, and two turns into three, until Sam is rocking back against the palm of Steve’s hand. Steve slips the condom on messily, and when he pushes into Sam, he practically sees stars.

“ _Christ_ ,” Sam gasps, and Steve rests his hands on Sam’s hips, a silent question. _Is this okay_? “Yeah, baby, I’m fine.” He sucks in a steadying breath, feeling impossibly happy with Steve inside him. “Give it to me.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve moans, draping his body over Sam’s for a moment and then tightening his grip on Sam’s hips. It’s one of the only times that he’ll swear—Sam takes pride in being able to reduce the normally-innocent and pure Steve Rogers into a cursing, stammering mess in the bedroom. Now, though, Sam is rocking back against him, desperate for friction.

“Fuck me, baby,” He grunts. Steve doesn’t need to be told twice—immediately, he snaps his hips back and slams forward, his whole body working with Sam’s in perfect harmony. Sam’s hands grab at the sheets as he moans at the intensity of Steve’s thrusts. All thoughts dissipate from his head when Steve sinks his teeth lightly into Sam’s shoulder. He inhales sharply.

“God, _Sam_ ,” Steve growls lowly in his ear, “I could fuck your pretty ass all _day_ —”

Sam comes with a cut-off gasp. Steve follows.

“That was quick,” He says breathily as they lie together on the dirty sheets. Sam looks at him pointedly, narrowing one eye slightly.

“Remember when I said we had all day? Yeah. Nothing’s changed.”

xx

The next day—the day of final football game of the year—it snows. Of _course_ it does; it’s Syracuse. What else would happen? The band is cooped up on the stands, excused from marching but stuck with playing until the end of the game. Sam is only watching with interest in the quarterback.

It’s a long game. The other team is just as good as the Orangemen, and for every home team score, the away team matched it easily. It was a nightmare, Sam knew, for Steve, who loved a challenge but _hated_ the back-and-forth scoring pattern. Every touchdown, Sam stands with the rest of the band and yells at the top of his lungs before sitting down and forcing his brass icicle to play the fight song. Finally, though—finally, after three and a half quarters of hell, Syracuse scores on two possessions in a row. It’s sealed the game. With a shout, the team comes together on the field and huddles excitedly, the final win putting them on the road to one of the biggest Bowl games in school history. At that moment, a tall blonde player with the number 4 printed on his jersey runs out from the middle of the pile and heads towards the stands. Sam sets his trumpet down and leaps over his bandmates, clattering down the stairs until he reaches the field.

“We did it!” Steve cries, and Sam laughs happily, pulling him in for a kiss.

The band ‘awwww’s loudly. Sam pulls away and flips them all off. “Sorry about them.” He replies sheepishly, and Steve laughs, kissing him again as the snowflakes start falling faster.

“Your face is cold,” He murmurs as they part again, and Sam rolls his eyes goodnaturedly. “Here, lemme help.” He kisses Sam on the cheek, and Sam’s face heats up.

“You’re such a sap,” He mumbles, tightening his arms around his boyfriend’s neck. “Besides. Not all of us can be human heaters, Steve—” He’s cut off mid-sentence, though, because the rest of the football team sneaks up behind them and dumps three gallons of freezing cold Gatorade on the two of them. Sam yells. Steve laughs.

It’s kind of perfect.


End file.
